Bernard O'Shea: Why don't men wear make-up all the time?

I asked the makeup artist, "Oh Jesus, could you remove those lines under my face?" She made me look like someone who got a regular night's sleep.

Bernard O'Shea. Photograph Moya Nolan

I never thought about wearing makeup. It wasn't until I glimpsed my reflection after a sleepless night, eyes as puffy as a poorly made soufflé, that I pondered - is it time to bridge the chasm between masculinity and makeup?

I am no stranger to the unyielding glares of stage lights. As they hit, every wrinkle and blemish amplified, a quiet question emerged from the recesses of my self-assurance - could a dab of concealer be the unsung hero of my vanity's tragic opera?

Last week, I was asked the makeup artist how I would like my makeup done at a panto launch in Limerick. I've never thought about it before. I know nothing about makeup, even for stage or for film, and it's something that most people who thread the boards have learned to apply themselves.

Only when I looked into the mirror could I see the deep black eyes staring back at me. I asked the makeup artist, "Oh Jesus, could you remove those lines under my face?" She did, and what's more, she did it in a way that made me look, if not younger, but someone who got a regular night's sleep. It got me thinking: why don't men wear the war paint all the time?

Embarking on a pursuit of scholarly illumination, my browser opened gateways to articles promising truths untold. Amidst the colloquial dialogues of beauty bloggers lay some profound revelations. Stripped of its gendered shackles, makeup was a tool of empowerment, an artist's brush on the canvas of self-expression.

Historically, makeup was a companion to the warriors and pharaohs, the kings and courtiers. The Renaissance saw men in ruffles and powdered wigs boasting painted faces as symbols of stature. Yet, somewhere between the battlefields and boardrooms, the rouge was renounced. Nevertheless, in the modern era, makeup has experienced a resurgence in popularity, transcending gender and societal norms. 

It has become a form of self-expression, a tool for boosting confidence, and an art form in its own right. Today, people from all walks of life embrace makeup as an integral part of their daily routine, breaking free from past constraints. This transformation has created a diverse and vibrant beauty industry where innovation and inclusivity are celebrated. 

The evolution of makeup is a testament to our ever-changing culture and the power of individuality. The only problem with my individuality was that I was a goose looking into a bucket, trying to find out where I should start.

That day before I went home, I popped into a giant chemist and perused the aisles of cosmetic sanctuaries. The realm of foundations and eyeliners, a world as alien as quantum physics, unravelled its mysteries. "Start with a good moisturiser," an article pinned to an end isle said, so with the valiance of a knight, I donned my armour of hydration.

I'm not a total philistine when it comes to moisturiser. I do occasionally (when I remember) apply moisturiser to my face and beard oil after a swim. But this newfound magic called "concealer" would never grace my gym bag (note: gym bag implies that I go to the gym regularly for transparency purposes, let's say once a week). I eventually decided to concentrate on the bags under my eyes. I bought a pen-like pointer with a rollerball attached to the end of it.

The first stroke of concealer for me was as monumental as Armstrong's lunar landing. "You've ventured where few men dare to tread," chimed my reflection, a newfound glow illuminating the paths of courage. I thought I’d wear my imperceptible mask with a chivalrous grace, the world none the wiser of the allies that bolstered my visage until I noticed that my eyes looked grand but weren't the same colour as the rest of my face. Then I roller-balled my entire face to blend it with my freckled (yes, it doesn't take much sun for my pastel white epidermis to blotch up) mug.

In the silent reflection of my visage, painted yet pure, a realisation echoed - makeup was not a feminine act nor a masculine defiance. Neither was it a dalliance of self-love, a canvas where colours of self-expression and courage waltzed freely, unbridled by the constraints of societal doctrines. For me, it was my last great grasp of youth. Like a weary rock climber throwing his hand onto the top of the cliff and watching it pull away age again, I realised age is an unclimbable mountain.